"Alone"

Edgar Allan Poe has always been one of my favourite author-poets. He appeals to me even more when I'm in a blue or sombre mood. Not being a Literature student I'm not sure if the adjective Gothic could be applied to his oeuvre but it's certainly dark and, often, macabre. He may not be everyone's cup of tea, especially in this 'fast-food' era where reflection and contemplation are often sneered at as outdated and a waste of time. Yet I, perhaps out of step with the modern world, remain defiantly attached to such writing. I reproduce below a poem of his which is one of my personal favourites : Alone.


From childhood's hour I have not been
As others were; I have not seen
As others saw; I could not bring
My passions from a common spring.
From the same source I have not taken
My sorrow; I could not awaken
My heart to joy at the same tone;
And all I loved, I loved alone.
Then—in my childhood, in the dawn
Of a most stormy life—was drawn
From every depth of good and ill
The mystery which binds me still:
From the torrent, or the fountain,
From the red cliff of the mountain,
From the sun that round me rolled
In its autumn tint of gold,
From the lightning in the sky
As it passed me flying by,
From the thunder and the storm,
And the cloud that took the form
(When the rest of Heaven was blue)
Of a demon in my view.


As an aside, the last line was used by Ruth Rendell as the title of one of her best known murder mysteries, 'A Demon In My View'for which she won the Crime Writer's Association Gold Dagger award in 1976.

Autumn lurks

For some reason I've been depressed today. Outwardly normal yet not at peace with myself. I doubt if anyone noticed anything amiss in my behaviour for I've gone about the business of daily life much as usual. Yet I continuously felt as if I were a ghost, outside my body, standing beside it and watching, bemused, as it went through the rigmarole of existence - a surreal, out-of-body experience. I'd mentioned Landor in my last post.Today, another of his poems kept coming to mind again and again. Was it a reminder of mortality - if any was needed ?

The leaves are falling; so am I;
The few late flowers have moisture in the eye;
So have I too.
Scarcely on any bough is heard
Joyous, or even unjoyous, bird
The whole wood through.

Winter may come : he brings but nigher
His circle ( yearly narrowing ) to the fire
Where old friends meet.
Let him; now Heaven is overcast
And spring and summer both are past,
And all things sweet.

-Walter Savage Landor

Life, what is it but a dream?

I would like to share with you one of my favourite poems by a poet who, I've always felt, did not get the accolades he deserved simply because of his phenomenal success as a writer of children's books - Lewis Carroll. The success of Alice in Wonderland overshadowed his poetry - despite the fact that many of his poems actually feature in his prose writings as an integral part of the story. As a writer of humorous verse and nonsense verse he has few peers. Unfortunately, as in prose so in poetry, humorous writers tend not to be taken seriously when the talk veers round to literary greatness.This is a poem in a different, dreamier, mood. Whenever I find myself exasperated by people talking about the feverish pace of modern life this poem springs to mind , especially the last five lines.

A Boat, beneath a sunny sky
Lingering onward dreamily
In an evening of July -

Children three that nestle near,
Eager eye and willing ear,
Pleased a simple tale to hear-

Long has paled that sunny sky:
Echoes fade and memories die:
Autmun frosts have slain July.

Still she haunts me, phantomwise.
Alice moving under skies
Never seen by waking eyes.

Children yet, the tale to hear,
Eager eye and willing ear,
Lovingly shall nestle near.

In a Wonderland they lie,
Dreaming as the days go by,
Dreaming as the summers die:

Ever drifting down the stream -
Lingering in a golden gleam -
Life, what is it but a dream?

[The initial letters of this poem when read downward give the full name of the original Alice (in Wonderland) - Alice
Pleasance Liddell]

Apropos of what I've written above , I remain deeply sceptical about whether life has really become fast-paced. I'm often tempted to tell these 'fast-paced' people the story of the donkey chasing a carrot dangling in front of him, tantalisingly out of reach, unable to understand that it's dangling from a stick tied to his own body and that he's never going to be able reach it. The Promised Land is always going to be 'just around the next corner'. No, we've simply lost the ability to slow down, relax, introspect, to think of something other than the 'rat race'. Are we increasinly losing touch with our inner selves, with nature, with the finer things in life, things which cannot be measured in money? W.H.Davies had it right :

What is this life if, full of care,

We have no time to stand and stare.

No time to stand beneath the boughs

And stare as long as sheep or cows.

No time to see, when woods we pass,

Where squirrels hide their nuts in grass.

No time to see, in broad daylight,

Streams full of stars, like skies at night.

No time to turn at Beauty's glance,

And watch her feet, how they can dance.

No time to wait till her mouth can

Enrich that smile her eyes began.

A poor life this if, full of care,

We have no time to stand and stare.

I've often been accused of being impractical and out of touch with the times. There was a time when I would be ready to argue the point spiritedly but these days, I just smile and let it go. Why give myself hypertension and ulcers? As for me, I'd rather be

Dreaming as the days go by,
Dreaming as the summers die:

Ever drifting down the stream -
Lingering in a golden gleam

After all

Life, what is it but a dream?